


circumstance came to be (break your trance)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post Episode: s03e08 Many Heads One Tale, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5253641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma's been kidnapped by HYDRA. It's not as bad as it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	circumstance came to be (break your trance)

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a quick drabble in response to a five-sentence prompt. And then...it kept going. Oops?
> 
> Title is from The Winery Dogs' _Devil You Know_. Thanks for reading and, as always, be gentle if you review!

“How do you feel about cats?”

In answer, Jemma scoffs and looks away.

Ward, of course, continues on undeterred. “You like cats, don’t you? I’ll give you a kitten if you cooperate.”

This time, Jemma’s scoff is echoed by one from the man on the couch. (He hasn’t introduced himself, but she’s fairly certain he’s the Gideon Malick Rosalind Price spoke about. They should have known Ward would end up working with him…temporarily, she’s sure. If the others were here, they’d all be betting on how long it will be before Ward betrays his new ally.

Jemma gives it a week.)

“This is ridiculous,” Malick says. “What are you expecting to accomplish with petty bribery?”

Ward rolls his eyes with a rueful smile that invites Jemma to share in his exasperation. He’s still crouched in front of her, and while her hands are restrained, her legs aren’t. She’s sorely tempted to give him a good kick.

One thing stops her.

Ward is a traitor and a murderer and a monster. That’s not in question. He betrayed their entire team, repeatedly kidnapped Skye, gave Fitz brain damage, kidnapped and tortured Bobbi, and nearly killed Andrew—and that’s just what he’s done to _them_. He’s also taken (and _ruined_ ) countless innocent lives.

But Gideon Malick is one of the people who sacrificed Will and his friends to that horrible planet.

In this one, rare case, Ward is the lesser of two evils.

“It’s an inside joke,” she tells Malick, “from when we were on a team together. He’s attempting to build rapport by reminding me of our shared history.”

Ward smiles, utterly unashamed.

“Is it working?” he asks.

“No,” she says, flatly.

“Ah, well,” he says. “It was worth a shot.”

With that, he pushes himself to his feet. This would be unremarkable if not for the fact that he pushes against her thighs, where his hands have been resting for approximately half an hour, and something in her cries out at the loss. When he steps away, a little of the calm which had settled in her chest slips away with him, and fear trickles in to take its place.

It’s not Ward’s touch—that could _never_ be a cause for celebration. It’s being touched at all that brought her peace, the warmth of his skin soaking through her jeans to counter a little of her fright. It was simple human contact, the exact thing she’s been craving for weeks, and not even its source could diminish the _relief_ of it.

No one touches her any longer—no one except Fitz. ( _Fitz_ has hugged her, held her hand, and even kissed her; but she can’t take any sort of pleasure or comfort in it, not when each brush of his skin against hers brings such guilt.)

But whereas Fitz has touched her plenty, none of the others have touched her at all. There were no hugs upon her return from the planet, no relieved clinging or friendly squeezes to her shoulder to reassure her of her safety. And while most of her knows it was courtesy, that the others restrained themselves—continue to restrain themselves—for her sake, in response to the way she cringed from them when she first arrived…

A tiny, bitter voice in the back of her mind insists that the lack of contact has nothing to do with her and everything to do with Fitz. He proved his worthiness in rescuing her from the planet, and now everyone views her as his property—not for them to embrace or even touch. Their relationship, to the team’s eyes, is a foregone conclusion, and so the others are careful to respect it.

(And even to _push_ it, in several cases, though some are more subtle—and _gentle_ —than others.)

Knowing that she’s only projecting her own anger and guilt does nothing to lessen the impact of that horrid little voice, so it’s just… _nice_ to have simple human contact. Even with Ward, of all people.

Speaking of whom, the reason he stepped away was to confer with Malick, and as the conversation/argument (Malick, it seems, is very ready to torture her, whereas Ward is oddly against it) draws out, she grows impatient.

“May I make a suggestion?” she asks, rather loudly.

The look Malick shoots her is plainly annoyed; Ward only grins.

“Go ahead,” he invites.

“Why don’t you tell me what you want to know,” she suggests, “and then I’ll decide whether or not to answer your questions.”

It's obvious that they want to know about the planet; it's the only reason they would have kidnapped Jemma, specifically. The question is _why_ —why sacrifice so many people to that hell? Why doom Will to fourteen years of misery and isolation? Somehow, they know about It, the monstrous enemy which must even now be hunting Will. There must be a reason for their knowledge, and letting them ask their questions might just be the way to discover it.

Ward and Malick exchange a long look before, finally, Malick waves his permission. Ward turns back to Jemma with a pleasant smile, and despite the hatred burning away at her lungs, she finds it in herself to pity Malick. He so clearly thinks he’s in command of Ward, and it’s certain to end terribly for him.

(She hopes she’s there to see it.)

“You were on another planet,” Ward says. “For six months.”

“Six and a half,” she corrects. “But yes.”

“And you weren’t alone.” He crouches in front of her again, and calm settles over her as his hands return to her thighs. “There was an Inhuman there. An ancient, super-powerful, apparently immortal Inhuman. Is that right?”

An _Inhuman_? That—that monster is Inhuman?

“Oh, that rings a bell,” he murmurs, searching her face, “doesn’t it? You know exactly what I’m talking about.” His hands rub up and then back down her thighs—a brisk and encouraging gesture—and Jemma’s breath catches. “So why don’t you tell us what you know about our leader on the other side?”

 _Leader_?

Mind racing, she stares down at Ward’s hands. How or why HYDRA might consider It their leader, she has no idea, but if they do…

“And why,” she asks, very carefully, “do you want to know?”

“Well, you know.” Ward shrugs. “He’s our _leader_ , we should have more intel on him. For instance, what’s his favorite color? I need to know what kind of streamers to buy for his welcome home party.”

Two pieces of a very large puzzle slot into place at once. One, Malick aims to bring It—Death, the monster that haunts her nightmares—here.

And two, Ward doesn’t want him to succeed. Why else give her so much information, unless to discourage an answer? He must know she didn’t have an easy time of it while she was away, and would naturally assume that the _last_ thing she wants is to see that monster brought to Earth.

He’s not wrong. She shudders just to _think_ of the sort of havoc It could wreak if let loose on an inhabited planet. She can’t allow it.

…But in order to fetch It from the other side of the universe, they would have to open a portal to the hell It’s trapped in. The same hell _Will_ is trapped in.

This presents an opportunity—an opportunity she knows, with a cold, creeping certainty, is the best she’ll ever find.

So, with a slow inhale, she lifts her eyes to meet Malick’s. “We called It Death.”

Ward, as expected, catches on to the plural at once.

“We?” he asks, hands tightening on her thighs.

“Someone _else_ was on the planet?” Malick asks, frowning severely.

“Yes.” She can’t keep the accusation out of her tone—not, to be honest, that she tries very hard. “NASA sent a team of astronauts through the monolith in 2001. Three of them died shortly after; one survived. Will Daniels.”

Malick’s brow creases. “Did he really?”

He sounds rather put out by it; Ward, on the other hand, gives an impressed whistle.

“For fourteen years?” he asks. “Damn.”

“Quite,” she agrees. “We theorized that Death—or It, as we called it when we were feeling less dramatic—must favor him in some way.”

They theorized no such thing, of course, but Malick absorbs the lie without a blink. She really has improved by leaps and bounds in the area of deception.

Perhaps not enough to fool Ward, however. His eyes narrow. “Is that so?”

“It can control the planet,” she tells him. “It can get in your mind—make you see and feel things that aren’t really there, or even make you overlook things that _are_. I spent _four days_ wandering in circles around a pond, looking for water, before It let me see it.” She shrugs as best she’s able while tied to a chair. “How could Will have survived for _one_ year, let alone fourteen, unless Death willed it?”

“Right,” he says. “So. Don’t kill the astronaut. Got it.”

It’s exactly the response she was hoping to provoke, and without meaning to, she relaxes.

She has full faith in Will’s ability to defend himself against HYDRA, of course—he’s survived _It_ for fourteen years (and quite _without_ Its favor, she’s sure); HYDRA will pose no trouble—but that’s only if he knows there’s a need to do so. As long as HYDRA hesitates long enough for him to realize that they’re _evil_ , he’ll be fine.

Ward notes her relief—she can tell by the quirk to his lips—but he doesn’t comment. It's more evidence in favor of his lack of commitment to Malick's cause, that he's chosen not to call her on this clear indicator of her (poorly) hidden agenda. She can only hope that whatever has led his goals to stand in opposition to Malick’s will be enough to outweigh whatever enmity is between them.

“Shall we take this to mean, Miss Simmons, that you’re going to cooperate?” Malick asks. There’s suspicion in the way he surveys her over the rim of his glass. “Mr. Ward led me to believe you would require more convincing.”

 _Miss_ Simmons, he says. She certainly didn't miss being called _that_. Bloody HYDRA. 

“Mr. Ward,” she says, sternly, “is perhaps unaware that I led the surgical team that saved the life of Bobbi Morse after he tortured her.”

(And he must have been, from the way he stills.)

“I have no illusions about my own resilience,” she continues. “I don’t have the sort of training Bobbi does, and I have no hope of withstanding that much pain. If you were driven to torture me, I would inevitably give in and talk. It’s only logical to cooperate now—to save all our time and to spare myself pain.”

“Ward?” Malick asks.

“Well, she’s right,” he says, twisting to look over his shoulder at Malick. His hands remain firm on her thighs as he does so—something about which she’s beginning to wonder. As nice as the contact is, should she be concerned that he’s kept it up for so long? Ward never does anything without a reason, and this is the most tactile he's ever been with her. “It wouldn’t take me long to break her.”

“No,” Malick says thoughtfully, eyes drifting to one of the guards along the wall. The man has clearly been the recipient of a severe beating recently; Jemma wonders if it was at Ward’s hands. “It wouldn’t, would it?”

“Nope.” As he returns his attention to her, he removes a hand from her thigh in favor of tracing the scar above her eyebrow. “Simmons has always been the smart one,” he says, eyes locked on hers. “She knows when she’s lost.”

“And when you’ve won,” she agrees, heart in her throat.

She thinks— _hopes_ —they’ve just come to an understanding. It might make her as naïve as Malick, but that’s a chance she’ll have to take.

“Well, then,” Malick says. He leans back into the couch, sipping his drink. “In that case, we might as well get right to the point.”

“Guess so.” Ward’s hand sinks into her hair. He does it to hold her head steady as he leans in, but the feel of it is intimate enough to raise goosebumps on her skin—something that’s not at all helped by the way he lowers his voice to ask, “How did SHIELD bring you back, Simmons?”

Heart hammering against her ribs, she stares into his eyes. They’re the same shade as Will’s—she didn’t realize, before.

But where Will’s eyes were always warm, full of affection and concern even before he pieced her together when the loss of her hope broke her into fragments, Ward’s are only cold. Understanding or no, she can’t allow herself to forget that he’s a monster. He is cunning and ruthless and, by telling him about Will, she’s just given him a weapon to use against her.

If—when—she answers this question, she’ll give him another.

Not only that, she’ll be handing Malick the means to bring Death to Earth, thereby putting several billion innocent people at risk. Will wouldn’t want that.

 _Will_ is stranded in hell with a monster. Does he believe she’s coming for him? Has he held on to hope? Or has he abandoned it, the way he had before she fell into his life and forced him, foolishly, to believe in her?

He wouldn’t blame her for leaving him there any more than he’d blame her for that kiss she shared with Fitz. Likely he expects it. He might even be happy for her.

But she can’t be happy without him. She _won’t_. It’s simply not possible. The guilt and the longing will gnaw away at her—eat her alive from the inside out, until there’s nothing left of her but crumbs.

She’s going to bring him home, no matter _what_ it takes.

“Daisy,” she whispers—solely because she has to force it out past the lump in her throat. “Daisy opened the portal.”

Ward’s brow furrows as he sits back on his heels, hand falling away from her hair. “Who the hell is Daisy?”

It surprises a laugh out of her, the briefest flicker of amusement to ease her troubled heart. It’s actually comforting, in a jarring way; it’s a lovely reminder that, for all of his resourcefulness, Ward _doesn’t_ know everything.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and bites back the rest of her laughter before it can turn to tears. “I didn’t think—but of course you wouldn’t know.” She draws in a slow breath, treasuring his unamused, impatient stare. “Daisy is Skye’s real name. She started using it after…well, while I was gone.”

He blinks, clearly taken aback by this information. “Really?” He frowns. “Why?”

Jemma actually has no idea, which she’s saved from admitting by Malick’s impatient _tsk_.

“Whatever her name is,” he says, “how did she do it?”

“Her powers,” she says. “Daisy’s an Inhuman—” something she’s sure he already knows, given his connection to Rosalind “—with the power to create vibrations. As I understand it, a certain frequency will resonate with the monolith, causing the portal to open. Daisy was able to match and maintain that frequency, thereby holding the portal open long enough for me to find it and come through.” She pauses, stuck (as always) on the flaw in any potential rescue operation. “Unfortunately, the monolith was destroyed in the process.”

“That’s okay,” Ward says, tone flippant, “we have others.” He rubs a hand over his chin, while the fingers of his other drum against her thigh. “So I guess what we need is Skye.”

It’s precisely the conclusion she was expecting him to reach, but that doesn’t stop dread from knotting her stomach. She ruthlessly pushes aside thoughts of Daisy and the flowers she brought her, her relieved smile and kind _you can call me whatever you want_. She will do what she must for Will’s sake—and in any case, Daisy’s perfectly capable of protecting herself.

Still, her eyes burn.

As such, it’s quite the relief to hear Malick say, “No, we don’t.”

It’s also, of course, quite the surprise, and she’s gratified that Ward appears just as confused as she is. (Although, she reminds herself, there’s a better than good chance he’s merely _pretending_ to be confused, in order to manipulate Malick.)

“We don’t?” he asks.

“No,” Malick says definitively. He sets his drink aside and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he steeples his fingers. “HYDRA has been sending people through the monolith’s portal for centuries. We’ve devised countless machines capable of opening it—and closing it.”

“Okay,” Ward drawls. “So kidnapping Simmons was, what? Just for kicks?”

“Not at all.” Malick gives Jemma a smile that chills her blood. “As I said before, in all those centuries, we’ve _never_ managed to bring anyone back. The prevailing theory was that the portal only worked one way—that we needed to do something different in order to retrieve anyone or any _thing_ we sent. Miss Simmons has just disproven that theory.”

He’s clearly building up to something, and Jemma grips the arms of her chair so tightly that her fingers ache. She had almost managed to forget about her vulnerable position, but the adrenaline suddenly flooding her system brings with it a hyperawareness of every detail: the scratch of the ropes binding her wrists to the chair, the lingering pain in her skull from the blow that subdued her when they grabbed her, and, most importantly, the absence of her shoes.

Even if she weren’t restrained, any flight would be impeded by dizziness and bare feet. Whatever’s coming next, she’ll simply have to face it…and hope that it doesn’t interfere with her vague plan to rescue Will.

“If the portal was held open long enough for you to _find_ it and come through,” Malick says to her, “then it must not open in the same place every time.”

“No,” she agrees, when he pauses expectantly. “It doesn’t.”

“Then it appears that what we need,” he says, leaning back into the couch once more, “is a _guide_.”

“A guide,” Ward echoes, and looks thoughtfully to Jemma. “Someone who’s visited the planet before—someone who knows her way around.”

“Exactly,” Malick says.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

A queer feeling comes over Jemma, as though she’s viewing the conversation from very far away. Her fingers and toes go numb as her breath becomes short in her chest. She can’t even feel the soothing warmth of Ward’s touch.

“You cannot possibly expect me to go back there,” she says, voice tremulous even to her own distant ears. “To that—that _hell_. I’d sooner die.”

“Sorry, Simmons,” Ward says. He pushes himself up again, pausing on the way to drop a friendly kiss to her hair. “Doesn’t look like you’ve got a choice. But don’t worry; we’ll be there every step of the way.”

It’s not fear that’s seized her—though it certainly suits her purposes for Ward and Malick to think it is, and she’s grateful for the hard-earned instinct that led her to feign it.

In fact, it’s relief that leaves her shaking. After all this time—after every discarded theory and dead end—she’s finally found a way through the portal. She doesn’t even have to do the work herself; HYDRA will walk her right through it.

She’ll be reunited with Will.

There are still difficulties, of course. Unspoken understanding with Ward aside, HYDRA’s goal will still be to bring _Death_ back, not Will. And there’s Will himself: the issue of what he’ll do when he sees the lengths to which she’s gone to rescue him, what he’ll _think_ when he realizes that she’s working with the very people that doomed him and his team to Death.

But none of that matters. She was prepared to sacrifice Daisy for the sake of rescuing Will; she’ll more than happily sacrifice her relationship with him. As long as he’s home, at the end of the day—as long as she can get him away from that terrible, terrible place—the details are irrelevant.

As she shakes, Malick disappears through the door in a flurry of orders aimed at the guards that follow him.

Ward lingers. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner seems, suddenly, very loud.

“So,” he says.

She meets his eyes evenly. “So.”

“Will, huh?” He rocks back on his heels, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. “How’s Fitz feel about all that?”

Guilt stabs at her, but it’s so familiar by now that it’s no trouble at all to push it away.

“Fitz doesn’t mind,” she says. “Hunter, however, is furious on his behalf. He's been rather unkind about it, in fact.”

The slow smile that spreads across Ward’s face would be terrifying in any other circumstances. As it is, it’s actually quite comforting. He might—in fact, probably does—resent her for her attempt to kill him, but that’s nothing compared to his hate for Bobbi and Hunter.

He’s petty enough to help her get what she wants, solely to spite Hunter.

“Well, then,” he says, and squeezes her shoulder. “Let’s see what we can do about getting your boyfriend home.” He pauses significantly. “For Death’s sake, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmurs.

They understand each other well, she thinks. He knows that she’ll do anything for the man she loves—just as _she_ knows that _he_ doesn’t share power.

They’ll bring Will back from the planet. She’s certain of it.

And she’s equally certain that Death—and Malick—won’t be so lucky.


End file.
